Author: Bobbi Kay, Author

Riding on the back of a Road King for many years was a kick in the ass, however sliding into a Ferrari carries me into unimaginable dreaminess. The luxury Italian automobile grabs the road’s pavement, the gear shift guiding way into unlawful speeds without my permission. My smile turns into laughter, tears blur my vision forcing me to pull over. My handsome passenger and owner of this fine piece of machinery kisses me on the cheek. I believe he is somewhat relieved we’ve landed.

Like this:

It looms in obscurity, the tri-level with well kempt yard and garden. Darkness hoovers about even during daylight. Families move in and out whom we’ve never met. During summer bliss, a large man sits calmly on the steps smoking a cigar, drinking liquor from an old bottle, his dog howling in discontent from the backyard.

Sometimes he looks over at me while I sit on my porch. I wave. He nods.

Nighttime brings uncomfortable sounds from that house. Children cry… a woman screams. The man on the porch hurts her. He damages the dog more.

Don’t get involved, don’t call the police. That seems to be the policy of our neighborhood.

I can’t stop thinking about the way the dog whimpers all hours, his cries of abandonment.

My Silky Terrier, Mandy and I walk the floors two am every morning, insomnia plaguing our sleep. I go into the hall bathroom, window is slightly ajar. I hear sobbing. Poking my head through the small gap I whisper, “Hello?”

“Shhhh.” comes from a masculine voice. I hear him lifting her,carrying her back to hell. Not caring about consequences, tired of doing nothing I dial 911.

Turning off the porch light, I sit silently in my chair, watching police cars surround the house across the street.

Like this:

Veterans Day, my son Beau and I head out to dinner. He warms up his car in bitter cold and we brave the snowiest November Colorado has seen in ninety-three years. Traveling via Hampden Ave to Parker Road, the car stalls in a small curvy corner on one of the busiest five lane streets in Aurora. We have run out of gas.

“How can you run out of gas?” I ask mom like.

“Well I had fifty miles left when I left Metro.” Confused he taps the fuel gage.

“Ok, so you left downtown, came home, drove to work out and back home. That’s more than fifty miles.” I smile.

The roads have become dangerously icy in the darkness, cars are taking the overpass to fast. I’m sure we will be rear-ended. Beau flicks on the hazard lights and I turn on the dome praying everyone will know we are there. Vehicles of all sizes zoom by narrowly missing us. My heart is in my stomach , the windows fog up from our breath and the freezing temperatures flow in from the floorboards.

I call my oldest son Blake, “We have an emergency. Beau ran out of gas, we are stranded.”

Without hesitation he comforts, “I am at Lowes, I will pick up a gas can and be there in fifteen.”

We wait. We joke, we talk, we wait. Time goes slow, my toes cramp in my boots. A car with one headlight pulls up behind us… someone nice has stopped to see if we need help.

The car with a broken headlight still lingers behind us. I can’t see the driver. Why would they just be sitting there? Creepy.

A bit of panic sets in. “Ok that’s a serial killer behind us trying to see who’s in our car.”

“Mom! Are you serious?” Beau stares into the rearview, his face mirroring my edginess.

The warmth inside is all but gone, shivering we watch the roadside murderer inch up behind us.

Blake flashes his lights, here to save us.

Our focus remains locked on the bundled up, hooded killer pulling into traffic, staring us down as he passes by.

Like this:

The sound of playing cards rhythmically slapping against bicycle spokes echoed down the poorly paved road. Dusk settled gently,summoning neighborhood streetlights to begin their flickeringbeam dance.

Moisture laden air pasted Belamie’s bangs against herforehead. Her light cotton tank top cringed against dampglistening skin, an occasional faint breeze shifting wisps of longlight brown hair across her shoulders. With a firm grip on theturned up handlebars, Belamie effortlessly steered the stolen bike.

Placing her left hand behind her she twisted around, checking onher best friend peddling methodically behind.Sari seemed as if she just stepped down from pages of aglamour magazine, even eloquently supporting a heavy whiteplaster cast, resulting from bunion surgery in late April. Thehospital casing surrounded her in certain fame, enveloping aroundher as a fairytale. Every inch of plaster from toes to kneecapsshared heartfelt wishes, funny drawings to make her laugh andphone numbers by the dozen.